


Say Thank You

by BurningTea



Series: Prompts [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel, Castiel Saves Dean, First Kiss, M/M, Rescue Mission, Sam Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:05:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/pseuds/BurningTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle with Amara and getting free of being Lucifer's vessel, Castiel is weakened, and Sam and Dean insist he take it easy, but when Sam loses Dean on a case, he calls in Cas for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Thank You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExpatGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/gifts).



> ExpatGirl wanted Castiel saving Dean this time, and Sam insisting Dean thank Cas properly. Her wish is my command.

At half ten in the morning, Sam finds Dean’s phone in a puddle outside the bar. The screen’s cracked and the insides are fried, and Sam hasn’t heard from Dean all night.

Cas arrives mid-afternoon, his skin a parchment scrawled with the wounds of the recent past, and glares at Sam’s research. The scattered papers don’t tell much, but Dean being missing has to be linked to the case. Has to be.

Sam tells Cas to sit, even goes as far as to pull out a chair and look expectant until Cas does as he’s told. Everything with Lucifer has been hard on the angel, leaving him wrung out and weak. Only the night before, on his way out to find a bar, Dean finally admitted that he’s worried Cas is too far gone now to recover. 

Still, Sam called him. He’s selfish when it comes to his brother, and he knows it, despite everything he’s learned about costs and consequences, but this time it’s not that he’s willing to use Cas up if it means saving Dean, whatever the Hell it is Dean needs saving from. This time it’s that promise they made, the both of them, a promise Cas extracted without even meaning to. Just getting him back, knowing he’d said yes to the Devil because he felt expendable, had Dean making them all swear to keep each other informed. Hell, he’d practically sworn to Cas on bended knee that the guy would be shown how involved he was. Hence, calling Cas now when Sam would rather have him back at the Bunker, safe and secure.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Sam asks, catching the wince of Cas’ face as he reaches for another document. “You can man research. Leave the rest to me.”

Cas shoots him a look that says Sam is being ridiculous.

“I’m fine,” he says. He may as well have it printed out on a card. Save him the trouble of saying it. “Show me Dean’s phone.”

Cas’ sleeve rides up as he holds out his hand and Sam drops the phone into Cas’ palm, looking away as soon as he can. The new shirt, buttoned right the way up, and the new coat Dean helped Cas pick out fit better than his old clothes. They also keep him covered. Cas was the one to choose the leather gloves, the sort of soft, high-quality things that make Sam think of sports cars and money. Really, it’s all about keeping his skin hidden. But Cas took those off as he walked in, leaving his hands bare. One scrolling line snakes across Cas’ wrist and over onto the meat of his hand, right at the base of his thumb. It’s far from the worst, but every single one reminds Sam that they nearly lost Cas, again, because he thought he wasn’t important enough to them to consider himself worth keeping safe.

Sam flips a few more papers over, scanning through what he has yet again. There’s a tic just under his jaw, on the right side, and it pulses every few seconds. 

“Anything on the phone?” he asks, when he’s reminded himself he still doesn’t even know what creature they’re after. He thought it was a werewolf, but Dean vanished on what should have been the fourth night. It’s either not a werewolf, or it got Dean when it was in human form. 

“It shouldn’t matter,” Cas says, that curl of frustration in his tone something Sam’s got very used to hearing. It’s the one that winds through all of Cas’ words when he comes up against something he can no longer do. “I should be able to sense him.”

He mustn’t be getting anything from the phone. It was a long shot, but Cas won’t tell them flat out what he can and can’t do and he’s touchy about them guessing. 

“Right. Well. I’ve got hold of the surveillance from the places round the bar, but there’s not much to go on. It doesn’t show Dean. Or much of anyone. No-one I spoke to remembers seeing him, not even in the bar.”

“There has to be something,” Cas says, and he’s already moving past his annoyance at his own limitations, back to certainty. “Show me the footage.”

It’s a habit he has, folding his determination around himself like a cloak. If there’s one thing Sam can be sure about with Cas, it’s that he won’t let go of saving Dean. Not even when he should.

The angel’s eyes narrow as he stares at Sam’s laptop, watching the few people who cross the screen closely. Assessing. 

“I don’t think we’re looking for a werewolf,” he says. “Not for this.”

Sam tries to track what Cas sees, but he’s been over this time and again as he waited for his friend to arrive, and he has nothing. He doesn’t see anything new now.

“I asked about sulfur, cold spot, the works. I looked for tracks or signs of anything else. I’ve got nothing, Cas.”

“Take me to the place you found the phone.”

And he has his gloves back on, his sun-glasses on his face, and the collar of his black coat turned up before Sam can think of a reason to refuse. It’s getting closer to dusk, anyway, and more than one person they’ve come up against in the last few months has assumed Cas is wearing tattoos. 

He does as Cas says.

**************************

It’s a nondescript street full of businesses which are barely less so. Castiel stands where Sam says he found the phone, his boots wet, and unfolds the remnants of his Grace. If he can’t sense Dean properly, he’ll have to find something to latch onto at his last known location. Resonance is something he’s never tried explaining to Sam or Dean. Bobby was the one who showed some interest in Castiel’s perceptions, his ways of interacting with and navigating the world, and Castiel can’t visit Bobby now. 

“Cas?” Sam asks. He’s standing with his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking worried. “What are-?”

“I need quiet,” Castiel says, because he doesn’t want to have to explain. “It’s delicate.”

It isn’t. This will either work or it won’t. He’ll have the strength or he won’t. Sam doesn’t need to know that. Castiel’s seen the way the two of them look at him now, with quiet concern and an urge to protect him. At least he knows they care.

Tendrils of Grace reach out, seeking anything which hums of Dean. There. A drop of blood too small to be seen by human eyes, a few inches from the puddle. He links his awareness to it, pushes his senses to widen out from the ever moving now. 

Pain lances through his temple. His human sight whites out. 

“Cas?”

Sam’s hands are on him, holding him up, and he feels the damp give in his nostril which tells him he’s bleeding. It doesn’t matter.

“I have a thread,” he says, and pulls out of Sam’s hold.

****************************

Dean’s trail pulsates, wavering as Castiel fights to keep his awareness in the right state to track an impression from the near past. This should be easy. Only a few years ago, this would have been easy.

Then again, a few years ago he wouldn’t have needed to do this at all. Even a few months back he could sense Dean’s longing, even though at the time he thought it was for the use Castiel could be. It’s since been explained to him how wrong he was, a fact he still finds difficult to hold on to. 

“You’re sure about this?” Sam asks, as they stop not far from an office building, it’s windows glinting in the last rays of the sun.

“He came here,” Castiel says. 

He’s sure one of them should suggest coming up with a plan, perhaps with some way of gaining further intelligence before attacking, but a scream rips through any such thoughts. It spills out from an open window above their heads.

“That’s Dean,” Sam says, jolting forwards.

They each know how the others scream in pain by now, though Castiel is almost certain the Winchesters were ignorant of the shape and texture of Castiel’s screams of agony until he faced the Darkness with Lucifer at the helm. Just the thought of it’s enough to set off the twisting marks left on his skin. He pushes that aside. No time for maudlin thoughts. Dean needs him.

The doors are locked, but Sam manages to pick the lock on a side door. Castiel holds himself still, reminding himself not to rail at his inability to break the doors down. Another limitation he must adapt to.

Sam heaves a breath when the lock clicks, glancing at Castiel before slipping inside, and they find a darkened hallway. It stretches away into deeper shadow. 

Another scream leads them to the right, up a flight of stairs and another, and pulls them to a partly open doorway. Castiel is stopped by Sam’s hand wrapping around his left wrist. When he tilts his head to look at his friend, Sam frowns. It’s the same expression he had on his face when Cas first woke up after Amara and Lucifer canceled each other out in his body. 

“You sure about this?” Sam asks, his voice so quiet a non-human would be unlikely to hear it even from this close. “Let me go in. You wait out here.”

Castiel sees Sam’s expression tighten at another scream, but he holds Castiel’s gaze, or as much as he can do when Castiel is still wearing the dark glasses. 

“No,” he says.

Pulling free of Sam’s grip, he spins around and strides to the door. Weakened though he undoubtedly is, he’s still an angel, and his charge needs saving.

****************************

Sam bites back a curse as Cas heads right for the door. 

His new coat merges with the shadows and it’s all too easy to imagine Cas is slipping away into the darkness, the way he nearly did. He takes off after Cas, the few feet seeming a greater distance than it should do.

Cas bursts through the door with Sam on his heels, his blade catching silver as he flips it into position. Sam grips his gun and takes in the scene.

Five men stand around, all armed. One of them has a stance and a suit which say he’s in charge, and he’s over near the far wall, where another man holds something Sam hopes isn’t some kind of shock stick. It looks like it’s powered, at any rate.

Against the wall, shackled to it with his arms above his head, is Dean. 

Tears streak his face and blood spatters on his skin say this isn’t the only method they’ve tried. His jacket and shirt are gone, leaving him in just his jeans. His bare feet just touch the thin carpet. 

Cas’ entry means it’s an all guns blazing situation, and Sam opens his mouth to shout his brother’s name. Cas beats him to it.

“Dean!”

The shout echoes. Anyone who wasn’t already staring at them is now, and Dean’s eyes latch on to Cas. The shift in his expression answers every lingering question Sam has about the two of them. 

A moment is all he has before the closest man’s brain catches up with events and he attacks. A second guy moves an instant later, and Sam takes the impact of a full body blow. These people are trained, their movements fast and precise, and Sam loses the gun in seconds. A knee to the stomach drops him right after it.

He hits the ground, his breath short, and takes to grappling. 

This one guy is all he can handle, wrestling with his teeth gritted and muscles straining. He’s lost sight of Dean, of Cas. Sweat coats his body and his breath is trying to hitch.

Finally, he lands a blow that sends his attacker sprawling. There’s no sign of his gun. Gasping, he rolls to his knees. And stops.

Two other men lie motionless on the floor, one with his eyes open and staring. Blank. Beyond them, Cas faces off against the one who was torturing Dean. As Sam watches, the guy lunges, wielding that stick with a speed and confidence that make Sam tense. 

Cas is still, poised, shifting aside at the last moment and reaching out a hand to take the man’s forearm. With a move that he must have practiced countless times, the angel snaps his opponent’s arm around, forcing the man’s weapon against his own body. 

It is some sort of shock device. The guy’s eyes bug out and he spasms.

Cas lets go with his gaze already on the last target. The boss. He steps forwards over the torturer’s twitching body with no sign he remembers he’s there, eyes locked on this last barrier between him and Dean.

“You’re the angel,” the man says. No. Sneers. The way he looks Cas up and down is obscene, like he’s got ideas of what he could do with Cas and not a single one of them is something that should be thought about an angel. “Come to save him? I suppose you think dropping those men means you have me. You’re wrong.”

This man wears a suit that would have Dean drooling, if he weren’t already drooling his own blood and spit onto his chest for entirely more horrifying reasons, and he smirks as though he’s in the pages of some glossy magazine. He lifts a hand and snaps his fingers, and fire springs up. It dances along the tips of his fingers. 

“You think that’ll impress me?” Cas asks, sounding part growling thunderstorm and part just confused.

“I think you already know what I am,” the man says. “And I’ve heard the stories. You might have been able to go up against me once. But now? You’re barely here, angel. Burning One. More smoldering ashes now, aren’t you?”

Sam makes it to his feet and prowls to Cas’ side, lining up with his shoulder not far from his friend’s. This fire-toting bastard ignores him.

“Cas?” Sam asks. “What is he?”

“Ifrit,” Cas says. 

“Your cousin,” the ifrit says. “After a fashion. Wings and fire, right? But you see, I have those still, and you, once so mighty cousin, are running low on both. Can you even still feel those wings?”

“Yes,” Cas says. The word is bitten off, terse. 

Not for the first time, Sam wonders just what state Cas’ wings are in. It’s another topic on which the angel won’t be drawn.

“No good to you, are they?” the ifrit asks. A warmth suffuses his skin, something glowing even to human eyes. “Whereas I still have every spark I ever had, every current and updraft. And now I have your Michael Sword.”

“He’s of no use to you,” Cas says. “Your kind don’t take vessels.”

“A vessel such as this one has other uses,” the ifrit says, his tone making it clear he expects Cas to know that. “I’ll get plenty of use from him once he’s broken. Don’t you worry, cousin. You can give him over to my care. Creep off and lick your wounds, wait for the sweet release of death. It must be coming for you soon.” 

If the ifrit really expected that to work, he’s a lot more stupid than he looks. Cas’ lip curls and he hefts his blade.

The ifrit might still have been able to talk Cas down, maybe, if Dean didn’t groan right then. 

With a snarl, Cas steps forward. There’s nothing like the finesse Sam used to expect from a warrior, but Cas more than makes up for it with confidence and brutality. 

Sam drops back, circling closer to Dean, as Cas and the ifrit clash. It’s harsh and damaging and Sam wants to pull Cas out of that fight, but he needs to see to Dean first. And Cas already dropped three men. He’s got himself free of torture more than once, faced off against arch-angels more often than any of them. He has this.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, his weight hanging from his arms.

“I’ve got you,” Sam says.

Before he can pick the first manacle, light blazes. He twists around to see Cas standing over a fourth body, this one lying in between a pair of ashen wing-prints.

“That thing’s really related to you,” Sam says, shock pausing him in his task.

“Yes,” Cas says. “In a manner of speaking. Get Dean free.”

Sam goes back to prising the manacles from Dean, and Cas joins him, lifting Dean’s weight and easing him to the ground once Sam has him free.

As soon as he’s checked Dean’s most immediate injuries, Cas insists Sam gets Dean out to the Impala while he deals with the bodies. Sam doesn’t ask what he’s planning on doing. The look on the angel’s face is terrifying. 

Sam drapes Dean’s arm over his shoulders and mostly carries him from the room. Dean’s breathing is harsh and ragged, and he doesn’t speak until they’re out on the street.

“Cas killed those men,” he says, head lolling.

“Yeah, he did,” Sam says. 

“He should be taking it easy,” Dean says, like Cas has been caught chopping firewood or going jogging or something when he’s got ‘flu.

“Pretty sure he’d do a lot more than that for you,” Sam says. A new thought strikes him. “You should thank him properly.”

They’re at the Impala now, and he’s so relieved to have his brother back and so shaken by seeing Cas fight like that, after spending months getting used to thinking of the angel as fragile, that words spill out he never meant to say. 

“The way he just fought, I’ll thank him if you don’t.”

He gets the door open, a juggling act what with having to keep Dean upright with one hand, and when he gets Dean sitting in the back seat he sees the bemused look on his brother’s face.

“What? Thank him how?”

Sam checks behind him and sees Cas round the corner of the building, his head still up as though he’d heading into another battle. Dean’s eyes are partly closed when Sam looks back at him, but he’s alert enough to hear this.

“Get your act together and kiss him, Dean,” Sam says. “Or I’m telling you now, I’ll do it for you.”

He has about thirty seconds before what he’s just said catches up with him, and by then he’s sitting in the driver’s seat and can just refuse to meet Dean’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. Still, he doesn’t take the words back.

************************

Dean lies with his head on the pillow, watching Sam and Cas pack up their gear. Earlier on, Cas slipped out and took care of the werewolf, refusing to even listen to Sam or Dean protest. To be fair, neither of them tried very hard. The memory of Cas taking those men apart is hazy, clouded by the sweat and blood in Dean’s eyes and the fog in his pain-addled brain, but it’s clear enough to still his tongue. 

Now, Cas wants to get Dean back to the Bunker, muttering about their refusal to let Cas heal Dean himself. When Sam said Cas still needed to pace himself with his Grace, Dean almost forced himself off the bed to hold the angel back. Sam’s right, though. Cas looks paler than he should do, and it’s made worse by those snaking dark sigils all over his skin, mementos from being the battle-ground for Lucifer’s final fight with the Darkness. They’re still not totally sure how Cas came back from that, and if Cas has any idea he isn’t saying. He just wears the clothes Dean helped him pick out and otherwise acts like he doesn’t know the marks are there.

At this moment, with his coat thrown over a chair and his glasses and gloves tucked away somewhere, the marks on Cas’ throat, neck and forearms are easy to see. Dean can’t deny it. He feels a thrum of fear when he sees them, all too aware they’re partly caused by Amara in some way. And Dean never did get over whatever hold she had on him. 

He’s almost sure this pull he feels towards Cas is from before that, but Amara got in his head and messed with his mind, and he isn’t convinced of anything. Except the fact that the thought of Sam kissing Cas makes Dean recoil.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, when the last of the bags is packed. “Um. You got a minute?”

He throws a pleading look at Sam, who pauses, his eyes widening, before nodding. A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take these out to the car,” Sam says, and is gone.

Cas watches Sam go and joins Dean, sitting down when Dean gestures at him.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas asks.

“Er. So, you saved me,” Dean says. That’s a safe enough statement. He pushes on before Cas can dismiss it as nothing. “You were pretty bad-ass, man. Not gonna lie. Kind of impressive. Think Sam’s wants to thank you for it.”

“Sam already thanked me,” Cas says, tilting his head a little.

A brief image of the two of them kissing drives Dean on, even though he’s sure that isn’t what Cas means. One of them would have said something. And Sam wouldn’t have stopped at a quick peck, not if he’d really kissed Cas. Those lips do not look like the kind that let a man stop at one kiss. Dean’s sure he won’t, once he actually kisses Cas.

Shit, he’s going to kiss Cas. He’s actually going to do this. Finally.

“I want to thank you, too,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

It’s been too many years of stopping himself, of watching Cas dwindle and diminish before his eyes. And Sam clearly hasn’t got a problem with it.

“There’s no need-” Cas starts.

His soft noise of surprise as Dean’s lips meet his is cut off almost as quickly. 

At first, Cas is still, but before Dean can panic and pull back he feels Cas curl a hand around the back of Dean’s head, holding him in place, before the angel changes the angle and kisses back. 

Dean was right. He isn’t going to stop at one. Or at kissing. And if Sam wants to complain, well… He’s the one who told Dean to go for it, so it’s his own fault. 

Perhaps this is a way to get it through to Cas that he’s cared for, now that Cas has reminded Dean and Sam he’s still the warrior he always was. And a hero should get a thank-you kiss, after all.


End file.
